


The Aftermath

by dilemmaed



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Andrew Minyard Loves Neil Josten, Explicit Language, Exy (All For The Game), Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Mentioned Drake Spear, Neil Josten loves Andrew Minyard, POV Neil Josten, Palmetto State University, Post-The King's Men, Protective Neil Josten, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, post-trial of aaron minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilemmaed/pseuds/dilemmaed
Summary: Neil was fully aware that he was now the closest thing Andrew had to family, to what Cass might have been for him if things had turned out differently. He also knew that Andrew would never admit to that fact, could barely allow himself to acknowledge that Neil was a permanent fixture in his life, that he wasn’t a pipe dream, that he had no intention of leaving, that he was done running.It scared Neil too, probably just as much as it scared Andrew. Neil had expected to be dead by last May, but he was here. He was broken and scarred and burned, but he was here; he was alive and he had Andrew: his trust, his kisses, his promises. The least he could do was be here, this immovable force in Andrew’s life, be the same thing that he was to Neil.
Relationships: Neil Josten & Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 34
Kudos: 350





	The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> It's been a little bit, but I'm back with more Andreil! I love writing these two, I just think there's so much potential to explore with them, so once again, leave requests and suggestions!
> 
> This one shot ended up being a lot longer than I thought it was going to be, but here we are at 8.8k words lol!
> 
> I'm not sure if it was clear from the summary, but this is a pretty angsty fic about Andrew and Neil in the aftermath of Aaron's trial.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it :)
> 
> BTW: This is unbetaed; all mistakes are mine.

Neil didn’t know what to do.

He’d been in a beanbag chair, trying to sit still for over an hour now. He’d pissed off Kevin enough with his incessant fidgeting that the other man had locked himself in their bedroom to watch old Exy games on his laptop. The irritated look that Kevin had given him was less biting than Neil had been expecting, laced with hidden understanding and maybe something a little like pity. He knew somewhere deep under the narcissism on the surface, that Kevin was worried too, that he cared. He’d seen the look on Kevin’s face this afternoon, the way he’d blanched, gripping the bench to either side of him, knuckles bone white.

Nicky shifted in the chair next to Neil, the beans crunching under the change in weight distribution. He was almost as anxious as Neil, his thumb pushing the tab on his beer can back and forth for the past twenty-five minutes. Nicky’s eyes were transfixed on the television, which was playing some sort of obscene adult cartoon, all colors and rowdy jokes. Normally, it was the sort of thing that made Nicky burst into lip-biting laughter, but he could tell from the glazed look in his eyes that the man next to him was seeing nothing but the day’s events, hearing nothing other than blunt truths of Andrew’s childhood exploited to dozens of people.

Andrew, though, still wasn’t back. Neil knew– _ he knew _ that Andrew was with Betsy Dobson, that she’d taken him out to a diner somewhere on the way back. She had pulled Neil aside at the courthouse, saying that she was going to take a few hours with him. He had been the one to invite Betsy, recognized that he might not be able to help Andrew today, but she might. She was the closest thing to a mother that Andrew had, and today, seeing Cass, Neil knew he needed her. He still didn’t believe in therapy, didn’t trust therapists as a group, but he knew that right now, Betsy was likely the only person Andrew might speak to and that was all that mattered.

Neil, Nicky, and Kevin had been back at Fox Tower for hours now, but Andrew was still with Betsy, or at least he was supposed to be. Maybe he’d killed her by now. Neil hadn’t been able to do much of anything productive in his absence. Wymack had spoken to the school board and granted that Neil, Kevin, and the cousins be granted excused absence and leniency from their classes for the rest of the week, but Neil had tried to get a jump on his growing pile of school work. He found, as he often did, that he couldn’t focus, his mind drifting to Andrew each time he tried to answer a question, the blank expression that had been on his face as he was forced to recall what Drake had done to him, both long ago and last November. 

It wasn’t pity he was feeling for Andrew–no, Neil didn’t really see much point in pitying, but something inside of him notably recoiled as he heard Andrew speak, the even tone of his voice barely suggesting that he was discussing a topic more serious than the weather, let alone something so traumatizing as what had been done to him. It was understanding, perhaps, that he felt, and the notion of it only made Neil’s heart clench in his chest.

He had gone for a run, tried to allow it to wipe his mind clean the way it always had, but today he found that he couldn’t. He ran and ran for miles, but he couldn’t chase away from the thought of Andrew sitting on the stand, of Cass, looking anywhere but the twins, but the boy that had become so close to being her son. He couldn’t shake the cold expression on Andrew’s face as he glanced her way.  _ Pathetic _ , it had seemed to say. And he wasn’t wrong.

But now Neil was getting anxious. Andrew should have been back a couple of hours ago and the silence was killing him. Not actual silence, since the television was blaring obnoxiously, but the silence born of a lack of Andrew’s presence. It was a frequency Neil had trained himself to hear, to recognize without having to glance around the room, to find a pair of expressionless hazel eyes. 

Aaron wasn’t here either, but Neil was less concerned about that fact. Aaron hadn’t wanted Katelyn at the trial, probably more for Andrew’s sake than his own, since Neil was sure Katelyn knew all the details of what had transpired with Drake. But despite it, the moment they’d arrived back and Neil had parked the Maserati, Aaron had thrown the door open and met Katelyn in the lobby. She’d thrown her arms around him, sputtering as Aaron’s shaking arms wrapped around her body, whispering softly into her ear. He didn’t have to worry about Aaron and he often made it his priority  _ not _ to know. Nicky had been far more concerned, but hadn’t said anything either, knowing better than to interrupt whatever had been conspiring.

As much as he wasn’t sure what to say to Andrew, what he  _ could _ say to him, Neil ached to be at Andrew’s side. Neil’s hands itched with purpose, though he wasn’t sure what that purpose was. He couldn’t do anything, especially given that he didn’t know where Andrew  _ was _ . He knew comfort wasn’t something that Andrew wanted, that he craved and Neil wasn’t good at giving it anyway. But what  _ would _ Andrew need? It was highly probable that Andrew wouldn’t even want Neil around at all, would rather go up to the roof alone than be bothered with another person’s presence, even Neil’s own. 

There was a sound coming from the hall, a jingle of keys as one slid into the lock. Neil’s shoulders went rigid. Nicky’s thumb went still on the beer can he’d been fiddling with, taking in a slow breath.

“Do you think I should be here when he comes in?” Nicky asked, following Neil as he stood from his beanbag chair. 

“Do whatever you want, Nicky,” Neil shrugged. It was a tense shrug, made of sharp movements and straight spine. He didn’t care so long as Nicky kept his mouth shut.

After a moment of jiggling, the key clicked in the lock and Neil slid a hand into his pocket, tracing the indentations of a familiar key into his palm, the suggestion of all Andrew had given him, had promised him through trust, kisses, and blunt truths.

The door opened then, and there stood Andrew, blond head illuminated by the dimmed hallway light, the only suggestion as to how late it actually was. Andrew shoved his way into the room, storing away his key in his pocket as he shut the door behind him.

That morning, Betsy had managed to coerce Andrew into wearing a suit, something that had been a pure shock to Neil. If it had been any other day he might have made a comment, maybe about how he looked in his tie, how it seemed to make his hazel eyes glow, stark against the black fabric. Maybe he would have kissed his neck, soft and slow. Now, that same tie that had hung so neatly around his neck was balled up in his hand, his collar unbuttoned. He said nothing. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since he’d been on the stand, and Neil wasn’t sure he’d speak for the rest of the night. 

Andrew barely spared Nicky or Neil a glance as he stalked past them into the bedroom. He left the door open and it was silent for a moment before Neil heard Kevin curse followed by a soft crash.

“Nicky, give me back my headphones or I swear to fucking–” Kevin’s voice broke off.

Andrew didn’t deign to answer, or if he did, it was too low for Neil to catch. Not even thirty seconds later though, Kevin emerged, laptop in hand, headphones slung around his neck. He looked weathered, but said nothing, shutting the door to the bedroom before sliding into the desk chair. 

“Do you want me to go tell the others he’s back?” Nicky asked, his voice low.

Neil shrugged, “I got it.” He pulled out his phone, typing out a short message to the rest of the Foxes.

“Neil Josten voluntarily using his cell phone. Never thought I’d see the day.” Nicky mocked, though he wasn’t smiling, only looking from Neil to the closed door.

Neil served him a glare, but Nicky didn’t seem to notice, his hands fidgeting in the pockets of his sweatpants.

Kevin’s voice broke through the silence, “You guys leaving?”

Neil nodded, “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll be back Sunday.”

Neil had packed the car hours ago, when they had first gotten back and he was only waiting for Andrew to leave. It was a long couple of minutes spent in tense silence as they waited for Andrew. Nicky returned to his spot on the beanbag chair, Kevin to his Exy games and Neil to the kitchen to make both Andrew and himself a cup of coffee. He made it the way he knew Andrew liked but would never admit to: strong, but with enough sugar to kill a large man.

Neil had finished half of his first cup and had poured himself another by the time the bedroom door creaked open, more to do with giving his hands something to do than the fact that he actually needed a second cup of coffee. Andrew was still inside the bedroom, but he had opened the door, a silent invitation for Neil to join him. Grabbing Andrew’s coffee from the desk, Neil padded over to the bedroom. Both Kevin and Nicky looked up as he passed through the threshold, closing the door once more, unsure if Andrew wanted to speak. 

He positioned himself carefully in the room, standing a distance from Andrew’s back, near his own slightly-disheveled bed. It ached to stand this far apart when all he wanted to do was move closer, to cup his scarred hands over Andrew’s cheeks and kiss away the memory of this morning, of the trial, of what Andrew had been forced to recount, of all he had endured.

But he wasn’t sure what Andrew’s limits were tonight and he didn’t want to test them. He wasn’t going to destroy the deliberate trust they had built up between them over the past year for one stupid decision. Andrew stood with his back to Neil, fiddling with his knives, glinting on the dresser. Neil stood, watching as Andrew put himself together as he placed his knives back into their sheaths, sliding them onto his wrists like armor against all that had tried to destroy him. 

_ But not me _ , Neil thought,  _ otherwise I wouldn’t be here _ . This, Neil knew, was just another small gesture of trust, a rare moment of vulnerability. For this moment, Andrew was unarmed, scars bared for Neil to see, self inflicted to create a break from the numbness the torment had manifested. It was this vulnerability that was all Andrew knew how to give today. It was Neil giving half-truths about his father, about his past. It was Neil pressing Andrew’s hand to his scarred abdomen, asking him to trust him enough to go to Easthaven. It wasn’t much, but he held fast to it nonetheless, taking a step forward toward the other man. 

At the noise, Andrew turned around to look at Neil, his uninterested gaze flicking around Neil’s face, from auburn hair to blue eyes to the travel coffee mug that rested in his hand. Andrew’s eyes lingered there as Neil walked towards him, handing him the mug. Their fingers brushed for a bare moment and Neil felt the way his skin jumped at the contact, itching to have  _ more _ , to press his lips against Andrew’s knuckles, up his now-covered forearms, to the scars that lie on the pale skin beneath.

“I’m ready to go when you are,” he sounded breathless, he knew. 

They had planned to go to Columbia tonight, well, Neil had planned it for them, knowing that Andrew wouldn’t want to be on campus, wouldn’t want to be around other people, especially Nicky. He meant no disrespect against Nicky for caring about his cousin, but the shining in his eyes was something too close to pity for Andrew to swallow without stabbing him, something that Neil dearly wished to prevent. He’d decided it was better for all parties involved to go alone to the house in Columbia for the weekend, to drive further if they saw fit, as long as they were away from here.

Andrew said nothing, only staring back with cold hazel eyes. They were shadowed, a consequence of lack of sleep or from the events of the trial, Neil didn’t know, but they lie under his eyes like dark smudges, bruises a shy moment from full bloom. There was something hidden underneath the ice, foggy beneath the surface and so far away, but Neil clung to it. 

Andrew had showered in the time since he’d gotten back, had traded his suit for a large black sweatshirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. It took Neil a moment to realize it was  _ his _ sweatshirt. He was fairly certain that Andrew was aware, since the collar was pulled and the sleeves noticeably too long, but Neil knew better than to say anything about it, especially when Andrew didn’t. He still wasn’t sure if Andrew  _ would _ speak tonight. But there was something about the appearance of Andrew, always so fierce, swallowed by Neil’s sweatshirt that made something in his chest squeeze. 

Andrew reached up and grabbed his wallet, keys, and a pack of cigarettes from where they sat on the dresser, slipping them into his pocket before silently gliding past Neil out of the room, his movements deliberate so as not to bump Neil on his way out. It pained Neil not to reach out, not to put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, to brush his fingers through damp golden hair. The Andrew who had just stood before him was so close to the Andrew he had known before all  _ this _ , before they started trading truths and kisses alike. But behind this Andrew, he could still see the man who refused to cross lines without a definitive ‘yes’, who had pressed a key into his palm and called it home, who had told him to  _ stay _ on a dingy hotel carpet in Baltimore, all of Neil’s secrets and scars laid bare, who hadn’t shied away from them, but memorized each one meticulously. 

He followed Andrew out, even as he paid no mind to Kevin or Nicky, the former barely glancing up from his laptop, the latter doe-eyed, all of his emotions written in them. Neil gave them a nod before shutting the door behind him, having to go at a slow jog to catch up with Andrew, staying a few feet behind him, just to be sure.

The car ride to Columbia was alarmingly quiet, and they had stopped only once to get gas, food, cigarettes, and more coffee. Andrew hadn’t spoken or turned on the radio, and Neil wasn’t going to ask him to do either. Instead, he watched Andrew, the way the lights of the interstate seemed to ignite his eyes into glowing technicolor, the way that, the further they drove from Palmetto, the more his shoulders seemed to slump in what might have been subconscious relief. He let his own cigarette burn down to the filter as he watched Andrew smoke his own, the stick more an extension of his hand than an object in it. 

He couldn’t help but let his mind drift back to this morning, to Aaron’s trial, to Andrew’s testimony. Andrew had been forced to recount what happened to Drake, both past and present to the court today–to Cass. She had sat in the front row, behind the prosecuting attorney’s bench, opposite Neil, Kevin, Nicky, and Bee. Throughout the trial, she had seemed as if she were only hanging from a thread, an inch from breaking apart. Her husband, Richard Spear, was seemingly the only force holding her up. He seemed much more put together than she, but Neil saw the way his hands shook in fists as they clenched the bench, clasped his wife’s shoulder. When he had entered the courtroom it had taken all of Neil’s strength to remain seated, not to be fazed by the man who looked so much like his late son–Andrew’s tormentor–that it was frightening. He could only imagine what it had been like for Andrew in that house. 

Neil’s eyes were drifting closed by the time they reached the exit, the traffic light blaring an angry red in his direction. He almost let them until he felt a hand brush against his own. It was so feather-light he barely noticed it, almost dismissing it as unintentional. He craned his neck down to where his hand lay next to the cupholder to see Andrew’s hand on the gear shift. If it had been anyone else, the likelihood of it being an accident would have been high, but this was Andrew and each touch, from punch to caress, was deliberate. He glanced to see if Andrew was watching him, but the man only took a drag from his cigarette and blew it out the window, his eyes still on the road.

Neil opened his palm, a question, a silent invitation if Andrew would accept it. In the past months since they had won the finals, they had progressed to the point where absent touches were okay, where they could stand side by side on the roof, shoulders touching, fingers interlaced as they shared a cigarette, but tonight Neil didn’t want to push Andrew. He only wanted to let him know that he was welcome to touch Neil–that he had Neil’s permission if he so wished.

Andrew didn’t look, didn't show any signs that he noticed Neil’s offer, but after a moment, he let his hand slip from the gear shift slowly. His hand folded against Neil’s at a painful pace, his muscles releasing even more so. Andrew didn’t entwine his fingers with Neil’s scarred ones, only laid them on top of each other, curling his pinky around Neil’s own. Neil felt the breath leave him at the feeling of Andrew’s skin on his, at the small fragment of trust that Andrew was willing himself to part with. Andrew’s hand was tense in his, and Neil fought every urge he had to bring Andrew’s knuckles to his lips, to close his hand around the other man’s.

Neil wasn’t aware they arrived at the house until he felt Andrew’s palm lift from his, leaving his skin feeling cold and strangely  _ empty _ . He grabbed both their bags from the back seat, seeing as Andrew had retreated into the house without looking back. Neil doubled back to collect their coffee cups and by the time he managed to enter the house, the only indicators of Andrew’s presence were the soft glow of light coming from the kitchen and the clinking of objects in the cabinet.

“I brought some,” he called from the hall, sticking his head into the kitchen doorway. 

Andrew didn’t say anything, but he turned to look at Neil, the expression on his face slightly curious, but at the same time seemed to say, ‘ _ some is not enough’ _ .

In response, Neil jingled the duffle bag in his right hand, bottles clinking, not waiting for Andrew as he walked in toward the living room. He settled himself on the couch, the bag on the coffee table in front of him. He sat back and waited for Andrew to join him, listening to the soft pad of his feet against the wood floor. When he finally entered, Neil was again struck by the appearance of Andrew in his clothes, the worn black of the sweatshirt turned charcoal with use. His arms were at his sides as he crossed the room, but his fists were clenched in the fabric, Neil painfully aware of the sheathes Andrew wore underneath, why he wore them.

Neil watched with interest as Andrew unzipped and sorted through the bag he had brought. Neil still wasn’t the biggest fan of alcohol, didn’t have too much knowledge on the subject, but he knew what Andrew liked, and which kind would get him wasted the fastest. He’d gone to the liquor store yesterday afternoon when Andrew had his weekly session with Betsy, stocking up on everything he could think of, including a bottle or two of Andrew’s favorite–and very expensive–Johnnie Walker Blue.

Andrew’s hand hovered disinterestedly above where he’d lined the bottles up on the table before settling on a whiskey, twisting off the cap and tossing it on the table. He didn’t sit down though–no, rather he took a deep swig of the bottle and paced his way around the room. He read the label passively, though treated it as if it were the most interesting thing he’d ever read.

Andrew was a half a bottle deep before he said a word, and even so, it caught Neil so off guard that he almost fell off the couch.

“Stop staring,” he said, the slightest bite to his voice, not deigning Neil with a look.

The words weren’t anything he wouldn’t expect from Andrew, but perhaps it was the fact that it was so characteristic of him that it shocked Neil. He hadn’t expected to hear a word from Andrew until at least the morning, post-hangover with a cup or two of coffee in him. The sound of his voice was such a startling and welcome surprise that Neil had to steel himself from having any sort of physical reaction.

“You know I won’t,” Neil replied, giving Andrew a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

Andrew only rolled his eyes, taking another long drink from the bottle he held. He had stopped pacing and instead stood, his back against the wall, bottle hanging loosely from his fingers.

It was silent again then, nothing but the sounds of their breathing and Andrew’s drinking filling the room. He watched as Andrew’s free hand fidgeted in his pocket, the way his blank expression spoke volumes more than he knew Andrew wished for it to. 

Anyone else save Betsy might not have noticed, probably would assume that it was just another variation of Andrew’s indifference, but Neil knew him too well now, had dedicated hours upon hours to memorizing every iota of Andrew’s face, his ticks, his expressions, the furrow in his brow, the line of his mouth. He could see the irritation in Andrew’s expression, the hint of something  _ else _ there, of the innocent boy Andrew had been so many years ago, when he had been willing to sacrifice himself just to hear the words ‘I love you’ spoken in his direction. 

There was something so raw about the presence of it and Neil wanted to cup his hands around it and protect it, before this last spark was destroyed too. It wasn’t pity, but a fierce protectiveness that scared Neil as much as it intrigued him. Neil knew that Andrew didn’t need or want a keeper, but he cared so little for his own life that Neil couldn’t help but want to stand in the path of anything that seeked to harm him. 

That was why Nicky had had to grab his arm in the courtroom this morning when the Spears came in until long after he had registered that the man standing there wasn’t Drake, but Richard. But it wasn’t Richard or Neil’s inherent distrust of older men that had Neil fighting against every instinct he had–it was Cass. Just the thought of her put a sour taste in Neil’s mouth. He took a sip of the highball glass he had been holding, the sweet burning taste of whiskey washing down the thought of the woman who had once been the closest thing Andrew had ever had to a mother.

“You know, I was right about her,” Andrew said as if he had read Neil’s mind, his voice low and gravelly from disuse and exhaustion.

Neil wasn’t sure what Andrew meant, but he knew enough to know that where Cass Spear was involved, it was never a good thing. The woman had offered Andrew a home and he had been prepared to take it, to finally have a family who loved and cherished him. Andrew had been prepared to allow himself to suffer, to allow himself to be destroyed, if only he could have this thing, to have a  _ family _ , a word that meant so much, but yet was so elusive to both of them, even still, even as they had each other.

Neil struggled to comprehend what life was like for someone who didn’t have a mother, for someone who didn’t have someone looking after them, keeping them in check at every step of the way. He had spent so much of his life being so viciously shielded by his own mother that he couldn’t imagine it being any other way. But Cass had been complicit in her biological son’s deeds, whether she’d known about them at the time or not. She’d grieved for him and not for Andrew, even after hearing the things he had done to the boy who she had almost called her own, the one who she had dangled a family in front of like bait on a hook. She had taken more children, even after Andrew had pleaded with Higgins to argue against the Spears ever having custody of a child again. Tilda had given Andrew up, beaten Aaron for most of his life. She had never been a mother to Andrew, but Cass–she was the only one he had, the only taste of what a mother could be and this afternoon she hadn’t even been able to look at him, had the gall to cry for her bastard of a son, rather than the one who sat on the stand, recalling the atrocities done unto him under her care, recalling what had happened to make him this way, all hard edges and thick skin.

Cass would always be a sore spot, a chink in Andrew’s armor he’d pretend he didn’t care about, didn’t notice, wasn’t worth his time, but Neil could see the way her presence had grated on Andrew from the set of his shoulders, the small ticks of tension in his expression beyond the memories he had laid bare.

Neil was fully aware that he was now the closest thing Andrew had to family, to what Cass might have been for him if things had turned out differently. He also knew that Andrew would never admit to that fact, could still barely allow himself to acknowledge that Neil was a permanent fixture in his life, that he wasn’t a pipe dream, that he had no intention of leaving, that he was done running. 

It scared Neil too, probably just as much as it scared Andrew. Neil had expected to be dead by last May, but he was here. He was broken and scarred and burned, but he was here; he was alive and he had Andrew: his trust, his kisses, his promises. The least he could do was be here, this immovable force in Andrew’s life, be the same thing that he was to Neil.

Neil tipped his glass in Andrew’s direction in acknowledgement, knowing that Andrew likely didn’t notice, knowing he would continue on his own terms, not at Neil’s bidding.

“I knew that she was a fucking waste of time. I knew it, and I stayed then. Today just solidified it,” he said, his voice empty of any tone. 

“She’s a fucking coward,” Andrew sneered, “The bitch couldn’t even look me in the goddamn eyes. Acted like this was  _ my _ betrayal, not hers. Her precious fucking  _ AJ _ ,” Andrew lifted his eyes to meet Neil’s. There was something sizzling under the indifference, something Neil recognized as rage and disappointment. 

“Maybe I am as smart as I thought I was,” he said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand, “because I was certainly right about them–about her.”

Neil flinched at the use of that name. A few months ago, Neil had asked, a truth for a truth, if Andrew had any nicknames. Neil’s mother had called him Abram, but more out of necessity rather than a term of endearment. The closest thing he had ever had to a nickname was the plethora of things that Andrew called him.

‘ _ AJ,’ _ he had replied, ‘ _ don’t, _ ’ was all he had offered. Neil hadn’t said a word then, knew that it wasn’t worth stirring Andrew’s ire over.

It was hours later, sharing a smoke on the roof of Fox Tower when Andrew had told Neil that AJ was what he had gone by when he lived with Cass, when he had lived with  _ Drake _ . He hadn’t needed to explain any further and Neil had never brought it up again, had never spoken the name aloud.

Neil stood up, his movements slow and deliberate as he crossed the room to where Andrew stood. Neil stopped a few feet from the smaller man, leaning his shoulder against the wall, mirroring Andrew’s stance.

“She’s spineless,” Andrew said, his eyes locking on the burn scar on Neil’s cheekbone, “and weak.”

_ She broke her promise.  _ Andrew didn’t say the words but Neil could feel them, just beneath his skin, in the breath that left Andrew’s mouth after he had finished speaking. Cass had been the last person Andrew trusted. He had believed the words from her lips when she had promised him a future, a life with her family, had trusted that she would protect him, though he had known better by then. Andrew had seen enough horror by the time he had arrived at the Spears house, more than he’d probably ever be open to sharing with Neil. Cass had just been the straw, the broken promise that had destroyed Andrew, the boy he had been, had destroyed what the others would call humanity–his soul, but Neil knew that wasn’t quite right. She had deteriorated the last of Andrew’s trust, turning him into what he was now, his personality, the soft parts of him so carefully compartmentalized in nearly-impenetrable boxes. Neil hated her, hated her for the strife she had caused a boy who only wanted to be loved, for her  complacency in her son’s actions, for the fact that she’d rather weep into her husband’s shoulder for her shitbag of a son rather than for what he had done to an innocent boy–and others after–under her roof.

“Then what’s Richard?” Neil mused.

“Uninteresting,” Andrew said, enunciating the word, all long vowels. He snorted at his own words, adding, “and a pussy.” He spoke the words as if they were fact, not a matter of opinion, his tone even.

Neil swallowed. He hadn’t missed the way that Richard hadn’t been able to look at Andrew either. He had been looking at Cass, at his wife, who was barely holding herself together as they watched their immaculate image of their son as it was ripped to shreds, person by person, story by story, layer by layer. He didn’t once lift his head to see if Andrew was alright, refused to meet his eyes as Andrew stared at them both, blank-eyed as he gave his testimony, as if he wanted them to know that they had a hand in this, that they were responsible and complicit in what had happened to him. That, despite the way they refused to look at him, despite the betrayal in their expressions, they had been the ones who had betrayed him–by promising a boy safety where there was nothing but suffering.

“And me,” Neil prompted, perhaps only in an attempt to keep Andrew talking, “what am I?”

Andrew didn’t miss a beat; he counted off on his fingers, “Narcissistic, irritating, oblivious,” rolling his eyes, he continued, “and a fucking junkie.”

“I’m yours, Andrew,” Neil said, watching the way Andrew's eyes flashed for the briefest of moments. If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, the kind of attention he reserved only for Andrew, then he might not have noticed. 

He studied Andrew’s expression with care, the way his eyes lifted to meet Neil’s ice blue ones to the way a muscle in his jaw jumped, barely a centimeter. He caught the stutter in Andrew’s breath just for a second, in the same way he had been able to recognize the tension in his familiar body when he was on the stand that afternoon. 

He did belong to Andrew, something that he still had a hard time coming to terms with himself. To lean on another person, to belong to another by choice; it wasn’t something that either of them could fall into with ease. Neil was still falling, and it scared him, but not nearly as much as he knew it must for Andrew.

He scoffed, “You’re relentless, Josten,” he sounded vaguely irritated, but not in a way that showed that he even cared or noticed the gravity of what Neil had said.

“That too, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m yours,” Neil said, inclining his head. He held out an offered hand by his waist, gently moving it into the small space between them, too close, but at the same time not close enough, the feet between them becoming miles, the way it had seemed earlier. 

Andrew rolled his eyes, “It wasn’t a compliment, asshole,” he said, his voice low, through somehow less grave than it had been a moment ago. 

“Well, I thought it’s already been established that I’m stupid,” Neil said, refusing to back away from Andrew’s stare, even as the latter slid his hand into Neil’s offered one. Neil’s hand immediately warmed at Andrew’s touch, despite how cold his fingers were due to their proximity to the open window. Neil curled his fingers around Andrew’s, locking them together. Andrew dug his fingers in hard, as if he wanted to leave an imprint, as if he wanted to force the memory of Neil’s touch into his skin. 

“You are,” Andrew said, “that hasn’t changed and isn’t likely to.”

Neil only shrugged. He glanced downward to where their hands hung, linked together in the open space between their bodies, the invisible line Neil wouldn’t cross, no matter how much he wished to. Neil’s hands were scarred where Andrew’s were umarred, a consequence of what Lola had done to him last spring. Andrew’s scars were of a different kind, unseen but not any less real, or present than Neil’s. 

Andrew bore the scars of what happened to him beneath his skin, inside his mind, in words and actions rather than burns or slices. They showed themselves in different ways, in his cryptic, observational stare, in the constant state of indifference on his face, a callus to protect himself from the world around him, in the way he asked ‘yes or no’, needed to hear it from Neil’s lips with absolute certainty before putting a hand on him.

Neil gripped Andrew’s hand a bit harder, enough to feel the muscle’s straining in the other man’s hand. Neil wasn’t aware that Andrew had taken a step forward until he felt his own breath quicken at the closeness. He didn’t look up, only kept looking at their hands, at the scars on his own hand, his bitten-down cuticles against Andrew’s pale skin, the soft purpling of bruises from his sparring session with Renee the night before. Neil wanted to kiss them away, gentle brushes of lips against damaged skin.

The bottle was still hanging from Andrew’s hand–the one that wasn’t attached to Neil’s, clenched around the neck with bone white knuckles. Neil watched the way that Andrew channeled all his control, his emotion, into that grip. The bottle was close to empty and he could smell the whiskey, melded with the scent of soap and cigarettes in a way that was so undeniably  _ Andrew _ . 

Andrew moved a bit closer, his body so close to being pressed against Neil’s, bare inches between them. That space was deliberate, careful in the way that the Foxes never thought Andrew could be, but Neil knew better. He knew better than to cross that space, than to lean into Andrew’s touch on a night like this, not after the trial, not after drinking that much whiskey. 

Neil looked up then, at the line of Andrew’s pink mouth, the golden color of his lashes, shades lighter than his hair, framing bored hazel eyes. Andrew’s words, spoken months earlier echoed in his brain as he gazed at the man before him,  _ ‘This isn't yes. This is a nervous breakdown. I know the difference even if you don't.’ _

Neil curled his fingers just a little bit tighter around Andrew’s, watching the fire flicker behind Andrew’s expression. Andrew needed those yesses, those nos, like Neil had once needed his lies, like the way he needed the scent of cigarette smoke, he needed Exy.

‘ _ I won't be like them. I won't let you let me be,’ _ Neil thought the words Andrew had once spoken, the ones he had repeated back to him weeks later. He wouldn’t, not after hearing Andrew recall what Drake had done to him in excruciating detail for the court. He couldn’t be like them–he refused to be. Once again it baffled him that Andrew was fine here, touching his hand, their bodies so close Neil could feel the heat of Andrew’s breath.

It took all of Neil’s carefully constructed composure to not react when Andrew tipped Neil’s chin downward towards him with the mouth of the whiskey bottle. Andrew didn’t kiss him though, only moved to rest his forehead against Neil’s, a careful few inches still left between their torsos. It would have been so easy–too easy to close it, but Andrew’s trust was too precious to lose. If he did it, he would be no different than the others–than Drake.

Andrew stared at Neil through hooded eyes, his lashes dusting his cheekbones. He looked apathetic still, as he almost always did, but there was something vulnerable in the way he rested his head against Neil’s own, in the way that the bottle hung from his hand, his eyes half-closed.

“After what he did, how are you possibly okay with this?” Neil breathed, closing his eyes against Andrew’s forehead for a brief moment. Andrew had explained before to Neil why this was okay, why it was okay with him when it hadn’t been with the others, but after all he had heard today, knowing that Drake was the final straw, not the only one made something in Neil’s chest ache ferociously for confirmation, for an answer.

When he opened his eyes, Andrew was staring at him, hazel eyes aglow. “We went over this one already.”

“Humor me,” was all he said.

Andrew rarely did anything on other people’s terms, so Neil knew that the likelihood that Andrew would answer him was slim. He watched Andrew anyway, for any cracks in his expression, for any changes in his breath, his grip. 

Andrew didn’t say anything, only tilted his head downward, in an attempt to meet his lips with Neil’s. Before he could get any closer, Neil pulled away, the scent of the alcohol on Andrew’s breath overwhelming any doubt he had about the action. Andrew couldn’t make this decision now, no matter how much he trusted Neil, he couldn’t do this when Neil could still see the shadow of the trial, of his testimony in Andrew’s eyes. 

“You’re drunk,” Neil said, swallowing in an attempt to clear the lump from his throat. He didn’t put a voice to the thought that Andrew was mentally unstable at the moment in addition to the alcohol he’d imbibed. He took a step back and moved to withdraw his hand from Andrew’s, to remove all contact, but the other man only squeezed harder, this time hard enough to make Neil’s bones ache at the pressure.

“That’s why,” Andrew said, sounding tired, his eyes unblinking, “you may be stupid, Josten, but you know the difference.”

Neil felt his stomach squeeze. Andrew knew, in his bones, that Neil wouldn’t take advantage of a false yes, of his vulnerability. Neil knew the difference between a yes and a no, knew when to stop, what Andrew’s limits were and was careful never to cross them, to toe the line, to push him over it. 

But how could trust be enough after what had been done to him? Andrew had trusted Drake, had trusted the others. He had been seven when he was told that it would stop if he only begged, if he only said please. There had been twelve houses between Andrew and the Spears, not a single one of them had been filled with decent people. He hadn’t told Neil about them all; he didn’t need to and Neil wouldn’t push him. He wouldn’t force Andrew to relive his trauma.

If he wanted to tell Neil, he would do it on his own terms, but for now, for  _ always _ , was content to wait. He wanted–he hoped, that one day he would map out Andrew’s entire body, his whole history, but he was in no rush. The only thing that mattered to him now was that Andrew  _ did _ trust him, that he was okay with the press of Neil’s palm against his own.

Neil took a step forward, leaning forward, but not so much that he was towering over Andrew. It was never a power grab, not with them, and tonight, Neil wanted to make that plain. He brought his mouth near Andrew’s ear, “Can I kiss your temple?” He asked, his voice low and painstakingly raw.

They had gotten to the point where Neil no longer had to ask for a casual touch like this, that he would just be able to do it no questions asked, but he knew how fragile, how exposed nad angry Andrew was feeling tonight, could feel it radiating off of his body still, and Neil knew that he might not be okay with this tonight. Just because he was okay with Neil’s hand, just because he was okay with pressing his forehead against Neil’s, didn’t mean that he would be okay with this.

He felt Andrew nod, “yes,” he breathed. He could hear the unspoken words, ‘ _ but nothing more’ _ . 

Andrew’s voice was so steadily calm, unwavering, but so quiet that Neil ached to wrap his body around Andrew’s, to pull him closer and shelter him from all that had happened to him. But he settled for this–this one thing Andrew had gifted him with.

Neil turned his head, pressing his lips into Andrew’s temple, closing his eyes as he squeezed the man’s hand. Andrew’s skin was warm to touch, his forehead slightly clammy, almost feverish as a result of the alcohol. He closed his eyes a moment, relishing in the way Andrew leaned into him slightly, the way his hair brushed against Neil’s cheekbone.

Before long, Neil felt a small, barely-there tremble in Andrew’s frame and he pulled away, an apology he couldn’t voice on his lips. Andrew grabbed his chin before he could pull any further away. He didn’t say anything though, just examined Neil’s face, from scarred cheekbones, to blue eyes, to his lips, just looking languidly, though Neil could feel the urgency in Andrew’s touch, even if it wasn’t something he wanted known.

‘ _ I’m yours,’  _ he thought. ‘ _ I’m not going anywhere.’ _

He wanted to be able to say something, to ground Andrew in the way that Andrew had grounded him months ago in Baltimore. With a furious grip on his chin, Andrew had told Neil to stay, had told him to leave Nathaniel and all the lies behind. He’d given Neil a home and a family, though he’d never own up to the latter. He’d given Neil what he had only ever dreamed of, had made it a reality, better than anything he’d ever expected. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to give Andrew that same privilege. He wanted to be able to ground him, to keep him close to the surface when he was close to receding back into himself, into that part of him that not even Neil could reach. He wanted to protect Andrew from himself, from the part of him that had mutilated his own skin for the sake of enduring, of curing himself of the numbness.

Neil waited for Andrew to say something to him, for him to say something about the way Neil was looking at him, but he didn’t. Neil’s eyes wandered Andrew’s features, drifted over his pinked cheekbones, but were always drawn back to his eyes, the beautiful, ever-shifting hazel that seemed to glow in certain light. They looked indifferent, yes, but drained. Neil’s heart squeezed at the sight of it, at the painfully unfamiliar feeling in his chest as he looked at Andrew, something that he was terrified to put a name to, and even more scared to say out loud.

Andrew released his chin in a single motion, picking up the bottle on the windowsill, leaving Neil standing there, sprawling in the absence of his touch.

“Fuck you,” Andrew said, voice hoarse.

Neil didn’t answer, only swallowed and watched as Andrew took a sip of the whiskey. A moment later, he capped the bottle, and let go of Neil completely. Neil curled his palm into a gentle fist, trying to hold onto remnants of Andrew’s skin against his and watched as the man strode to the coffee table, placing down the bottle with a clink. He paused for a moment, facing away from Neil, looking down at something. He wasn’t sure what Andrew was doing, whether he was fiddling with his bands or one of his knives, or if he was looking at something on the hem of Neil’s sweatshirt. Either way, he watched Andrew thoughtfully, as he often did, from the slump of his shoulders, to the smooth skin on the back of his neck.

It took a few minutes, but Andrew looked back up, and rather than looking at Neil, then looking at the scattered bottles that lie on the table before him, his eyes trailed to the doorway. Andrew flicked his thumb and forefinger on the hand that hung loosely at his side, the only hint that Andrew was itching for a cigarette. He didn’t reach for his pack or the head back out the front door, though. He only stood there for a moment, bundling his right hand in the pocket of Neil’s sweatshirt. He turned his head slightly, enough so that Neil could see his side profile, the way the soft lighting of the room highlighted the shadows of Andrew’s face, the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

If Neil didn’t know any better, he would have assumed that Andrew wasn’t paying attention, that he barely noticed his presence. But Neil didn’t know him, knew Andrew’s mannerisms better than he knew his own sometimes and knew Andrew’s observant nature wasn’t something he just let fall away at any given moment. Andrew was very much paying attention and even now, when the man seemed so lost inside of himself, so indifferent from anything that occurred today in the courtroom, Neil knew that if he took a single step in Andrew’s direction, breathed in an unnatural manner, his attention would draw back in an instant. Even drunk and seemingly far away, Andrew was more sharp-eyed and collected than most people on a good day. Neil repressed the bile in his throat as he recalled the reason why Andrew was this way. The sound of his even, familiar voice spitting a story so raw and horrible, rang in Neil’s eardrums and he took a long breath.

Andrew looked up then, came back to life, his movements mechanical, but still  _ Andrew _ . He unscrewed the cap on the bottle he had been drinking from one more time and took a long sip before closing it up again. It was mostly empty now. Then, he stuffed his hands in his pocket and took off toward the door without a word. Neil stood still, watching Andrew as he retreated out of the room.

Andrew seemingly noticed that Neil wasn’t following and stopped once he reached the doorway. He turned on his heel, squinting his eyes to examine Neil’s features at this distance. 

“I’m tired,” Andrew said, as if the words were the answer to Neil’s unspoken question, as if they were the answer to every question ever asked. 

Neil inclined his head in a nod, “Okay,” he said. He fidgeted where he stood, his fingers tracing the indentation of a key into his palm. Andrew looked expectant standing there, but Neil did nothing.

Then he said, “I don’t know what to do.”

Andrew didn’t hesitate, “Come to bed, Junkie,” he said, his voice flat, but softer than Neil might have expected.

Neil tried not to look surprised; he hadn’t been expecting Andrew to want to sleep next to him tonight. It wasn’t that he hadn’t slept next to Andrew a hundred times by now. It was that he had worried that the closeness, the vulnerability of sleep would prevent Andrew from feeling comfortable enough to let Neil into his bed tonight. But there was a softness in Andrew’s voice that hooked Neil in, erasing the doubt in this decision. Andrew wasn’t just okay with this, but rather needed it, even if he didn’t voice it. He met Andrew’s eyes, searching for a shred of hesitation, but only saw affirmation in them.

“All right,” Neil said, feeling breathless, “all right.”

Andrew considered him a moment, raised a brow at the taller man, then turned away. He didn’t move, only stood there long enough to hear the floorboards creak as Neil took a small step forward. Only then did Andrew finally move, padding his way down the hallway toward the bedroom, not looking back once to where Neil still stood in the living room.

Neil clenched his hand in a fist as he watched Andrew’s retreating form, his arm shaking with the effort. When Andrew finally passed into the bedroom door, he released a breath he had been holding since Andrew had first walked into their dorm earlier that night.

He would join him in a minute, he would lie next to him, fall asleep with his eyes studying Andrew’s elegant features until his eyes closed, their bodies close but never touching, not tonight. He was here, and he might have been drunk, might have been tense and broken and vulnerable in the ways that Andrew almost never was, but he was here. And he wanted Neil, wanted him here, wanted him in his bed. 

And all Neil wanted to do, all he could do, was look Andrew in the eye and show him that he saw all of him, that he saw everything he was and he wasn’t going to shy away from it. He wasn’t scared of Andrew’s knives, his all-encompassing stares. He wasn’t afraid of his past, wasn’t going to shower him with pity in the way that most of the courtroom–including Nicky–had today. Neil would hover his fingertips from Andrew’s face, wouldn’t question his yes, his no. He would always ask, always answer even if it was the same each time–as long as Andrew needed him to. Andrew was his always, his  _ home _ and Neil wanted to be able to show Andrew in all the ways he could.

Finally, he started down the hallway, flicking off the light switch in the living room with a swat of two fingers. The light in the bedroom was still on, dimly lit, likely from the bedside lamp on Neil’s side of the bed.  _ Neil’s side _ , he rolled the words over in his brain.

He played over the night’s events, Andrew’s words, his clenched fists, his furious grip, his deafening silence. It was more than Neil had expected. It was  _ something _ . It was something and that was enough. He was there if Andrew fell, there to put his hands on his face, to tell him to stay, to remind him of what he has to lose, of all he has; to remind him that he survived Drake, survived Cass, survived the others; to tell him yes, yes,  _ yes _ . It was enough. 

It was all he had to give and he would give it all. For Andrew.

_ ‘He’s okay,’  _ Neil thought, as he walked to where he knew that Andrew waited for him, ‘ _ he’s okay _ .’

Or at least he will be.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story and please, please don't hesitate to leave comments or Kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr for writing updates, etc at dilemma-ed and check out my other works, including four other Andreil one shots that I will be compiling into a collection and my dramione war fic, To The Fallen!
> 
> I'm still new to writing aftg, so please lmk in the comments what you'd like to see me write prompt wise, etc !
> 
> Until next time,  
> Em :)


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